More than the artist speaks here; and if there be not strong faith, there is at least beautiful hope. A more tender feeling could not be combined with a greater pathos; but Rossetti often reaches the very same supreme quality of sentiment, even in poems of a character closely allied to romance. We can take "The Staff and Scrip" as an example of mediæval story of the highest emotional quality.
"Who rules these lands?" the Pilgrim said."Stranger, Queen Blanchelys.""And who has thus harried them?" he said."It was Duke Luke did this;God's ban be his!"The Pilgrim said, "Where is your house?I'll rest there, with your will.""You've but to climb these blackened boughsAnd you'll see it over the hill,For it burns still.""Which road, to seek your Queen?" said he."Nay, nay, but with some woundYou'll fly back hither, it may be,And by your blood i' the groundMy place be found.""Friend, stay in peace. God keep your head,And mine, where I will go;For He is here and there," he said.He passed the hillside, slow,And stood below.
So far the poem is so simple that no one could expect anything very beautiful in the sequence. We only have a conversation between a pilgrim from the Holy Land, returned to his native country (probably mediæval France), and a peasant or yeoman belonging to the estate of a certain Queen. We may suspect, however, from the conversation, that the pilgrim is a knight or noble, and probably has been a crusader. He sees that the country has been ravaged by some merciless enemy; and the peasant tells him that it was Duke Luke. The peasant's house is burning; he himself is hiding in terror of his life. But the pilgrim is not afraid, and goes to see the Queen in spite of all warning. One can imagine very well that the purpose of the Duke in thus making war upon a woman was to force a marriage as well as to acquire territory. Now it was the duty of a true knight to help any woman unjustly oppressed or attacked; therefore the pilgrim's wish to see the Queen is prompted by this sense of duty. Hereafter the poem has an entirely different tone.
The Queen sat idle by her loom:She heard the arras stir,And looked up sadly: through the roomThe sweetness sickened herOf musk and myrrh.Her women, standing two and two,In silence combed the fleece.The Pilgrim said, "Peace be with you,Lady"; and bent his knees.She answered, "Peace."Her eyes were like the wave within;Like water-reeds the poiseOf her soft body, dainty-thin;And like the water's noiseHer plaintive voice.
The naked walls of rooms during the Middle Ages were covered with drapery or tapestry, on which figures were embroidered or woven.Arraswas the name given to a kind of tapestry made at the town of Arras in France.
For him, the stream had never well'dIn desert tracts malignSo sweet; nor had he ever feltSo faint in the sunshineOf Palestine.Right so, he knew that he saw weepEach night through every dreamThe Queen's own face, confused in sleepWith visages supremeNot known to him.
At this point the poem suddenly becomes mystical. It is not chance nor will that has brought these two together, but some divine destiny. As he sees the Queen's face for the first time with his eyes, he remembers having seen the same face many times before in his dreams. And when he saw it in dreams, it was also the face of a woman weeping; and there were also other faces in the dream, not human but "supreme"—probably angels or other heavenly beings.
"Lady," he said, "your lands lie burntAnd waste: to meet your foeAll fear: this I have seen and learnt.Say that it shall be so,And I will go."She gazed at him. "Your cause is just,For I have heard the same:"He said: "God's strength shall be my trust.Fall it to good or grame,'Tis in His name.""Sir, you are thanked. My cause is dead.Why should you toil to breakA grave, and fall therein?" she said.He did not pause but spake:"For my vow's sake.""Can such vows be, Sir—to God's ear,Not to God's will?" "My vowRemains: God heard me there as here,"He said, with reverent brow,"Both then and now."They gazed together, he and she,The minute while he spoke;And when he ceased, she suddenlyLooked round upon her folkAs though she woke."Fight, Sir," she said; "my prayers in painShall be your fellowship."He whispered one among her train,—"To-morrow bid her keepThis staff and scrip."
The scrip was a kind of wallet or bag carried by pilgrims. Now we have a few sensuous touches, of the kind in which Rossetti excels all other poets, because they always are kept within the extreme limits of artistic taste.
She sent him a sharp sword, whose beltAbout his body thereAs sweet as her own arms he felt.He kissed its blade, all bare,Instead of her.She sent him a green banner wroughtWith one white lily stem,To bind his lance with when he fought.He writ upon the sameAnd kissed her name.
"Wrought" here signifies embroidered with the design of the white lily. Remember that the Queen's name is white lily (Blanchelys), and the flower is her crest. It was the custom for every knight to have fastened to his lance a small flag or pennon—also called sometimes "pennant."
She sent him a white shield, whereonShe bade that he should traceHis will. He blent fair hues that shone,And in a golden spaceHe kissed her face.
Being appointed by the Queen her knight, it would have been more customary that she should tell him what design he should put upon his shield—heraldic privileges coming from the sovereign only. But she tells himgenerously that he may choose any design that he pleases. He returns the courtesy very beautifully by painting the Queen's face on the shield upon a background of gold, and kissing the image. By "space" here must be understood a quarter, or compartment, of the shield, according to the rules of heraldry.
Born of the day that died, that eveNow dying sank to rest;As he, in likewise taking leave,Once with a heaving breastLooked to the west.And there the sunset skies unseal'd,Like lands he never knew,Beyond to-morrow's battle-fieldLay open out of viewTo ride into.
Here we have the suggestion of emotions known to us all, when looking into a beautiful sunset sky in which there appeared to be landscapes of gold and purple and other wonderful colours, like some glimpse of a heavenly world. Notice the double suggestion of this verse. The knight, having bidden the Queen good-bye, is riding home, looking, as he rides, into the sunset and over the same plain where he must fight to-morrow. Looking, he sees such landscapes—strangely beautiful, more beautiful than anything in the real world. Then he thinks that heaven might be like that. At the same time he has a premonition that he is going to be killed the next day, and this thought comes to him: "Perhaps I shall ride into that heaven to-morrow."
Next day till dark the women pray'd;Nor any might know thereHow the fight went; the Queen has badeThat there do come to herNo messenger.The Queen is pale, her maidens ail;And to the organ-tonesThey sing but faintly, who sang wellThe matin-orisons,The lauds and nones.
Orisonmeans a prayer;matinhas the same meaning as the French word, spelled in the same way, for morning. Matin-orisons are morning prayers, but special prayers belonging to the ancient church services are intended; these prayers are still called matins.Laudsis also the name of special prayers of the Roman morning service; the word properly means "praises."Nonesis the name of a third special kind of prayers, intended to be repeated or sung at the ninth hour of the morning—hence, nones.
Lo, Father, is thine ear inclin'd,And hath thine angel pass'd?For these thy watchers now are blindWith vigil, and at lastDizzy with fast.Weak now to them the voice o' the priestAs any trance affords;And when each anthem failed and ceas'd,It seemed that the last chordsStill sang the words.
ByFatheris here meant God—probably in the person of Christ. To incline the ear means to listen. When this expression is used of God it always means listening to prayer. In the second line angel has the double signification of spirit and messenger, but especially the latter. Why is the expression "at last" used here? It was the custom when making special prayer both to remain without sleep, which was called "keeping vigil" or watch, and to remain without food, or "to fast." The evening has come and the women have not eaten anything all day. At first they were too anxious to feel hungry, butat lastas the night advances, they become too weak.
"Oh, what is the light that shines so red?'Tis long since the sun set";Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid:"'Twas dim but now, and yetThe light is great."Quoth the other: "'Tis our sight is dazedThat we see flame i' the air."But the Queen held her brows and gazed,And said, "It is the glareOf torches there."
Held her brows—that is, put her hand above her eyes so as to see better by keeping off the light in the room. There is a very nice suggestion here; the Queen hears and sees better than the young girls, not simply because she has finer senses, or because she has more to fear by the loss of her kingdom. It is the intensification of the senses caused by love that makes her see and hear so well.
"Oh what are the sounds that rise and spread?All day it was so still;"Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid:"Unto the furthest hillThe air they fill."Quoth the other: "'Tis our sense is blurr'dWith all the chants gone by."But the Queen held her breath and heard,And said, "It is the cryOf Victory."The first of all the rout was sound,The next were dust and flame,And then the horses shook the ground;And in the thick of themA still band came.
I think that no poet in the world ever performed a greater feat than this stanza, in which, and in three lines only, the whole effect of the spectacle and sound of an army returning at night has been given. We must suppose that the women have gone out to wait for the army. It comes; but the night is dark, and they hear at first only the sound of the coming, the tramp of black masses of men passing. Probably these would be the light troops, archers and footmen. The lights are still behind, with the cavalry. Then the first appearance is made in the light of torches—foot soldiers still, covered with dust and carrying lights with them. Then they feel the ground shake under the weight of the feudal cavalry—the knights come. But where is the chief? No chief is visible; but, surrounded by the mounted knights, there is a silent company of men onfoot carrying something. The Queen wants to know what it is. It is covered with leaves and branches so that she cannot see it.
"Oh what do ye bring out of the fight,Thus hid beneath these boughs?""Thy conquering guest returns to-night,And yet shall not carouse,Queen, in thy house."
After a victory there was always in those days a great feast of wine-drinking, or carousal.To carousemeans to take part in such noisy festivity. When the Queen puts her question, she is kindly but grimly answered, so that she knows the dead body of her knight must be under the branches. But being a true woman and lover, her love conquers her fear and pain; she must see him again, no matter how horribly his body may have been wounded.
"Uncover ye his face," she said."O changed in little space!"She cried, "O pale that was so red!O God, O God of grace!Cover his face!"His sword was broken in his handWhere he had kissed the blade."O soft steel that could not withstand!O my hard heart unstayed,That prayed and prayed!"
Why does she call her heart hard? Because she naturally reproaches herself with his death.Unstayedmeans uncomforted, unsupported. There is a suggestionthat she prayed and prayed in vain because her heart had suffered her to send that man to battle.
His bloodied banner crossed his mouthWhere he had kissed her name."O east, and west, and north, and south,Fair flew my web, for shame,To guide Death's aim!"The tints were shredded from his shieldWhere he had kissed her face."Oh, of all gifts that I could yield,Death only keeps its place,My gift and grace!"
The expression "myweb" implies that the Queen had herself woven the material of the flag. The word "web" is not now often used in modern prose in this sense—we say texture, stuff, material instead.A shredespecially means a smalltornpiece. "To shred from" would therefore mean to remove in small torn pieces—or, more simply expressed, to scratch off, or rend away. Of course the rich thick painting upon the shield is referred to. Repeated blows upon the surface would remove the painting in small shreds. This is very pathetic when rightly studied. She sees that all the presents she made to him, banner, sword, shield, have been destroyed in the battle; and with bitter irony, the irony of grief, she exclaims, "The only present I made him that could not be taken back or broken was death. Death was my grace, my one kindness!"
Then stepped a damsel to her side,And spoke, and needs must weep;"For his sake, lady, if he died,He prayed of thee to keepThis staff and scrip."That night they hung above her bed,Till morning wet with tears.Year after year above her headHer bed his token wears,Five years, ten years.That night the passion of her griefShook them as there they hungEach year the wind that shed the leafShook them and in its tongueA message flung.
We must suppose the Queen's bed to have been one of the great beds used in the Middle Ages and long afterwards, with four great pillars supporting a kind of little roof or ceiling above it, and also supporting curtains, which would be drawn around the bed at night. The staff and scrip and the token would have been hung to the ceiling, or as the French call itciel, of the bed; and therefore they might be shaken by a passion of grief—because a woman sobbing in the bed would shake the bed, and therefore anything hung to the awning above it.
And once she woke with a clear mindThat letters writ to calmHer soul lay in the scrip; to findOnly a torpid balmAnd dust of palm.
Sometimes when we are very unhappy, we dream thatwhat we really wish for has happened, and that the sorrow is taken away. And in such dreams we are very sure that what we were dreaming is true. Then we wake up to find the misery come back again. The Queen has been greatly sorrowing for this man, and wishing she could have some news from his spirit, some message from him. One night she dreams that somebody tells her, "If you will open that scrip, you will find in it the message which you want." Then she wakes up and finds only some palm-dust, and some balm so old that it no longer has any perfume—but no letter.
They shook far off with palace sportWhen joust and dance were rife;And the hunt shook them from the court;For hers, in peace or strife,Was a Queen's life.A Queen's death now: as now they shakeTo gusts in chapel dim,—Hung where she sleeps, not seen to wake(Carved lovely white and slim),With them by him.
It would be for her, as for any one in great sorrow, a consolation to be alone with her grief. But this she cannot be, nor can she show her grief to any one, because she is a Queen. Only when in her chamber, at certain moments, can she think of the dead knight, and see the staff and scrip shaking in their place, as the castle itself shakes to the sound of the tournaments, dances, and the gathering of the great hunting parties in the court below.
In that age it was the custom when a knight died to carve an image of him, lying asleep in his armour, and this image was laid upon his long tomb. When his wife died, or the lady to whom he had been pledged, she was represented as lying beside him, with her hands joined, as if in prayer. You will see plenty of these figures upon old tombs in England. Usually a nobleman was not buried in the main body of a large church, but in a chapel—which is a kind of little side-church, opening into the great church. Such is the case in many cathedrals; and some cathedrals, like Westminster, have many chapels used as places of burial and places of worship. On the altar in these little chapels special services are performed for the souls of the dead buried in the chapel. It is not uncommon to see, in such a chapel, some relics of the dead suspended to the wall, such as a shield or a flag. In this poem, by the Queen's own wish, the staff and scrip of the dead knight are hung on the wall above her tomb, where they are sometimes shaken by the wind.
Stand up to-day, still armed, with her,Good knight, before His browWho then as now was here and there,Who had in mind thy vowThen even as now.The lists are set in Heaven to-day,The bright pavilions shine;Fair hangs thy shield, and none gainsay;The trumpets sound in signThat she is thine.Not tithed with days' and years' deceaseHe pays thy wage He owed,But with imperishable peaceHere in His own abode,Thy jealous God.
Still armedrefers to the representation of the dead knight in full armour. Mediæval faith imagined the warrior armed in the spiritual world as he was in this life; and the ghosts of dead knights used to appear in armour. The general meaning of these stanzas is, "God now gives you the reward which he owed to you; and unlike rewards given to men in this world, your heavenly reward is not diminished by the certainty that you cannot enjoy it except for a certain number of days or years. God does not keep anything back out of his servants' wages—no tithe or tenth. You will be with her forever." The adjective "jealous" applied to God is a Hebrew use of the term; but it has here a slightly different meaning. The idea is this, that Heaven is jealous of human love when human love alone is a motive of duty. Therefore the reward of duty need not be expected in this world but only in Heaven.
Outside of the sonnets, which we must consider separately, I do not know any more beautiful example of the mystical feeling of love in Rossetti than this. It will not be necessary to search any further for examples in this special direction; I think you will now perfectly understand one of the peculiar qualities distinguishing Rossetti from all the other Victorian poets—the mingling of religious with amatory emotion in the highest form of which the language is capable.
While we are discussing the ballads and shorter narrative poems, let us now consider Rossetti simply as a story-teller, and see how wonderful he is in some of those lighter productions in which he brought the art of the refrain to a perfection which nobody else, except perhaps Swinburne, has equalled. Among the ballads there is but one, "Stratton Water," conceived altogether after the old English fashion; and this has no refrain. I do not know that any higher praise can be given to it than the simple statement that it is a perfect imitation of the old ballad—at least so far as a perfect imitation is possible in the nineteenth century. Should there be any criticism allowable, it could be only this, that the tenderness and pathos are somewhat deeper, and somewhat less rough in utterance, than we expect in a ballad of the fourteenth or fifteenth century. Yet there is no stanza in it for which some parallel might not be found in ballads of the old time. It is nothing more than the story of a country girl seduced by a nobleman, who nevertheless has no intention of being cruel or unfaithful. Just as she is about to drown herself, or rather to let herself be drowned, he rescues her from the danger, marries her in haste to save appearances, and makes her his wife. There is nothing more of narrative, and no narrative could be more simple. But as the great pains and great joys of life are really in simple things, the simplest is capable of almost infinite expansion when handled by a true artist. Certainly in English poetry there is no ballad more beautifulthan this; nor can we imagine it possible to do anything more with so slight a theme. It contains nothing, however, calling for elaborate explanation or comment; I need only recommend you to read it and to feel it.
It is otherwise in the case of such ballads as "Sister Helen" and "The White Ship."—"The White Ship" is a little too long for full reproduction in the lecture; but we can point out its special beauties. "Sister Helen," although rather long also, we must study the whole of, partly because it has become so very famous, and partly because it deals with emotions and facts of the Middle Ages requiring careful interpretation. Perhaps it is the best example of story telling in the shorter pieces of Rossetti—not because its pictures are more objectively vivid than the themes of the "White Ship," but because it is more subjectively vivid, dealing with the extremes of human passion, hate, love, revenge, and religious despair. All these are passions peculiarly coloured by the age in which the story is supposed to happen, the age of belief in magic, in ghosts, and in hell-fire.
I think that in nearly all civilised countries, East and West, from very old times there has been some belief in the kind of magic which this poem describes. I have seen references to similar magic in translations of Chinese books, and I imagine that it may have been known in Japan. In India it is still practised. At one time or other it was practised in every country of Europe. Indeed, it was only the development of exact science that rendered such beliefs impossible. During the Middle Ages they caused the misery of many thousandsof lives, and the fear born of them weighed upon men's minds like a nightmare.
This superstition in its simplest form was that if you wished to kill a hated person, it was only necessary to make a small statue or image of that person in wax, or some other soft material, and to place the image before a fire, after having repeated certain formulas. As the wax began to melt before the fire, the person represented by the image would become sick and grow weaker and weaker, until with the complete melting of the image, he would die. Sometimes when the image was made of material other than wax, it was differently treated. Also it was a custom to stick needles into such images, for the purpose of injuring rather than of killing. By putting the needles into the place of the eyes, for example, the person would be made blind; or by putting them into the place of the ears, he might be rendered deaf. A needle stuck into the place of the heart would cause death, slow or quick according to the slowness with which the needle was forced in.
But there were many penalties attaching to the exercise of such magic. People convicted of having practised it were burned alive by law. However, burning alive was not the worst consequence of the practice, according to general belief; for the church taught that such a crime was unpardonable, and that all guilty of it must go to hell for all eternity. You might destroy your enemy by magic, but only at the cost of your own soul. A soul for a life. And you must know that the persons who did such things believed the magic was real, believed they were killing, and believed they were condemned to lose their souls in consequence. Canwe conceive of hatred strong enough to satisfy itself at this price? Certainly, there have been many examples in the history of those courts in which trials for witchcraft were formerly held.
Now we have the general idea behind this awful ballad. The speakers in the story are only two, a young woman and her brother, a little boy. We may suppose the girl to be twenty and the boy about five years old or even younger. The girl is apparently of good family, for she appears to be living in a castle of her own—at least a fortified dwelling of some sort. We must also suppose her to be an orphan, for she avenges herself—as one having no male relative to fight for her. She has been seduced under promise of marriage; but before the marriage day, her faithless lover marries another woman. Then she determines to destroy his life by magic. While her man of wax is melting before the fire, the parents, relatives, and newly-wedded bride of her victim come on horseback to beg that she will forgive. But forgive she will not, and he dies, and at the last his ghost actually enters the room. This is the story.
You will observe that the whole conversation is only between the girl and this baby-brother. She talks to the child in child language, but with a terrible meaning behind each simple word. She herself will not answer the prayers of the relatives of the dying man; she makes the little brother act as messenger. So all that is said in the poem is said between the girl and the little boy. Even in the opening of the ballad there is a terrible pathos in the presence of this little baby brother. What does he know of horrible beliefs, hatred,lust, evil passion of any sort? He only sees that his sister has made a kind of wax-doll, and he thinks that it is a pretty doll, and would like to play with it. But his sister, instead of giving him the doll, begins to melt it before the fire, and he cannot understand why.
One more preliminary observation. What is the meaning of the refrain? This refrain, in italics, always represents the secret thought of the girl, what she cannot say to the little brother, but what she thinks and suffers. The references to Mary refer to the Virgin Mary of course, but with the special mediæval sense. God would not forgive certain sins; but, during the Middle Ages at least, the Virgin Mary, the mother of God, was a refuge even for the despairing magician or witch. We could not expect one practising witchcraft to call upon the name of Christ. But the same person, in moments of intense pain, might very naturally ejaculate the name of Mary. And now we can begin the poem.
SISTER HELEN"Why did you melt your waxen man,Sister Helen?To-day is the third since you began.""The time was long, yet the time ran,Little brother."(O Mother, Mary Mother,Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!)"But if you have done your work aright,Sister Helen,You'll let me play, for you said I might.""Be very still in your play to-night,Little brother."(O Mother, Mary Mother,Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!)"You said it must melt ere vesper-bell,Sister Helen;If now it be molten, all is well.""Even so,—nay, peace! you cannot tell,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,O what is this, between Hell and Heaven?)"Oh, the waxen knave was plump to-day,Sister Helen;How like dead folk he has dropped away!""Nay now, of the dead what can you say,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?)"See, see, the sunken pile of wood,Sister Helen,Shines through the thinned wax red as blood!""Nay now, when looked you yet on blood,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!)"Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore,Sister Helen,And I'll play without the gallery door.""Aye, let me rest,—I'll lie on the floor,Little brother."(O Mother, Mary Mother,What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)"Here high up in the balcony,Sister Helen,The moon flies face to face with me.""Aye, look and say whatever you see,Little brother."(O Mother, Mary Mother,What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)"Outside, it's merry in the wind's wake,Sister Helen;In the shaken trees the chill stars shake.""Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)"I hear a horse-tread, and I see,Sister Helen,Three horsemen that ride terribly.""Little brother, whence come the three,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven?)
In this last stanza the repetition of the words "little brother" indicates intense eagerness. The girl has been expecting that the result of her enchantments would force the relatives of her victim to come and beg for mercy. The child's words therefore bring to her a shock of excitement.
"They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar,Sister Helen,And one draws nigh, but two are afar.""Look, look, do you know them who they are,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Who should they he, between Hell and Heaven?)"Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast,Sister Helen,For I know the white mane on the blast.""The hour has come, has come at last,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!)
Those who come are knights, and the child can know them only by the crest or by the horses; as they are very far he can distinguish only the horses, but he knows the horse of Keith of Eastholm, because of its white mane, floating in the wind. From this point the poem becomes very terrible, because it shows us a play of terrible passion—passion all the more terrible because it is that of a woman.
"He has made a sign and called Halloo!Sister Helen,And he says that he would speak with you.""Oh, tell him I fear the frozen dewLittle brother."(O Mother, Mary Mother,Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven?)"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry,Sister Helen,That Keith of Ewern's like to die.""And he and thou, and thou and I,Little brother,"(O Mother, Mary Mother,And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!)"Three days ago, on his marriage-morn,Sister Helen,He sickened, and lies since then forlorn.""For bridegroom's side is the bride a thorn,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven!)
We now can surmise the story from the girl's own lips. There are wrongs that a woman cannot forgive, unless she is of very weak character indeed. But this woman is no weakling; she can kill, and laugh while killing, because she is a daughter of warriors, and has been cruelly injured. Notice the bitter mockery of every word she utters, especially the exulting reference to the unhappy bride. We imagine that she might be sorry for killing a man whom she once loved; but we may be perfectly sure that she will feel no pity for the woman that he married.
"Three days and nights he has lain abed,Sister Helen,And he prays in torment to be dead.""The thing may chance, if he have prayed,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven!)"But he has not ceased to cry to-day,Sister Helen,That you should take your curse away.""Myprayer was heard,—he need but pray,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,>Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven?)"But he says till you take back your ban,Sister Helen,His soul would pass, yet never can.""Nay then, shall I slay a living man,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,A living soul, between Hell and Heaven!)"But he calls for ever on your name,Sister Helen,And says that he melts before a flame.""My heart for his pleasure fared the same,Little brother."(O Mother, Mary Mother,Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven!)"Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast,Sister Helen,For I know the white plume on the blast.""The hour, the sweet hour I forecast,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven?)"He stops to speak, and he stills his horse,Sister Helen,But his words are drowned in the wind's course.""Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,What word now heard, between Hell and Heaven?)"Oh, he says that Keith of Ewern's cry,Sister Helen,Is ever to see you ere he die.""In all that his soul sees, there am I,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,The soul's one sight, between Hell and Heaven!)"He sends a ring and a broken coin,Sister Helen,And bids you mind the banks of Boyne.""What else he broke will he ever join,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!)
It was a custom, and in some parts of England still is a custom, for lovers not only to give each other rings, but also to divide something between them—such as a coin or a ring, for pledge and remembrance. Sometimes a ring would be cut in two, and each person would keep one-half. Sometimes a thin coin, gold or silver money, was broken into halves and each of the lovers would wear one-half round the neck fastened to a string. Such pledges would be always recognised, and were only to be sent back in time of terrible danger—in a matter of life and death. There are many references to this custom in the old ballads.
"He yields you these, and craves full fain,Sister Helen,You pardon him in his mortal pain.""What else he took will he give again,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!)"He calls your name in an agony,Sister Helen,That even dead Love must weep to see.""Hate, born of Love, is blind as he,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven!)"Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides fast,Sister Helen,For I know the white hair on the blast.""The short, short hour will soon be past,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven!)"He looks at me and he tries to speak,Sister Helen,But oh! his voice is sad and weak!""What here should the mighty Baron seek,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven?)"Oh his son still cries, if you forgive,Sister Helen,The body dies, but the soul shall live.""Fire shall forgive me as I forgive,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!)
This needs some explanation in reference to religious belief. The witch, you will observe, has the power todestroy the soul as well as the body, but on the condition of suffering the same loss herself. Yet how can this be? It could happen thus: if the dying man could make a confession before he dies, and sincerely repent of his sin before a priest, his soul might be saved; but while he remains in the agony of suffering caused by the enchantment, he cannot repent. Not to repent means to go to Hell for ever and ever. If the woman would forgive him, withdrawing the curse and pain for one instant, all might be well. But she answers, "Fire shall forgive me as I forgive"—she means, "The fire of Hell shall sooner forgive me when I go to Hell, than I shall forgive him in this world." There will be other references to this horrible belief later on. It was very common in the Middle Ages.
"Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive,Sister Helen,To save his dear son's soul alive.""Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!)
Riveis seldom used now in prose, though we have "riven" very often. To rive is to tear. The last line of this stanza is savage, for it refers to the belief that the black fire of Hell preserves the body of the damned person instead of consuming it.
"He cries to you, kneeling in the road,Sister Helen,To go with him for the love of God!""The way is long to his son's abode,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!)"A lady's here, by a dark steed brought,Sister Helen,So darkly clad, I saw her not.""See her now or never see aught,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,What more to see, between Hell and Heaven?)
As the horse was black and the lady was all dressed in black, the child could not at first notice either in the shadows of the road. On announcing that he had seen her at last, the excitement of the sister reaches its highest and wickedest; she says to him, "Nay, you will never be able to see anything in this world, unless you can see that woman's face and tell me all about it." For it is the other woman, who has made forgiveness impossible; it is the other woman, the object of her deepest hate.
"Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair,Sister Helen,On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair.""Blest hour of my power and her despair,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Hour blessed and bann'd, between Hell and Heaven!)"Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow,Sister Helen,'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago.""One morn for pride, and three days for woe.Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven!)"Her clasped hands stretch from her bending head,Sister Helen;With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed.""What wedding-strains hath her bridal bed,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,What strain but death's, between Hell and Heaven?)
You must remember that the word "strains" is, nearly always used in the sense of musical tones, and that "wedding-strains" means the joyful music played at a wedding. Thus the ferocity of Helen's mockery becomes apparent, for it was upon the bridal night that the bridegroom was first bewitched; and from the moment of his marriage, therefore, he has been screaming in agony.
The climax of hatred is in the next stanza. After that the tone begins to reverse, and gradually passes away in the melancholy of eternal despair.
"She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon,Sister Helen,—She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon.""Oh! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!)
To "gasp" means to open the mouth in the effort to get breath, as one does in a fit of hysterics, or intime of great agony. "Gasps on the moon" means that she gasps with her face turned up toward the moon. In the last line we have the words "blithe tune" used in the same tone of terrible irony as that with which the word "wedding-strain" was used in the preceding stanza. "Blithe" means "merry." Helen is angry because the other woman has fainted; having fainted, she has become for the moment physically incapable of suffering. But Helen thinks that her soul must be conscious and suffering as much as ever; therefore she wishes that she could hear the suffering of the soul, since she cannot longer hear the outcries of the body.
"They've caught her to Westholm's saddle-bow,Sister Helen,And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow.""Let it turn whiter than winter-snow,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven!)
The allusion is to the physiological fact that intense moral pain, or terrible fear, sometimes turns the hair of a young person suddenly white.
"O Sister Helen, you heard the bell,Sister Helen!More loud than the vesper-chime it fell.""No vesper-chime, but a dying knell,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!)"Alas, but I fear the heavy sound,Sister Helen;Is it in the sky or in the ground?""Say, have they turned their horses round,Little brother?"(O Mother, Mary Mother,What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?)"They have raised the old man from his knee,Sister Helen,And they ride in silence hastily.""More fast the naked soul doth flee,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!)"Flank to flank are the three steeds gone,Sister Helen,But the lady's dark steed goes alone.""And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!)"Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill,Sister Helen,And weary sad they look by the hill.""But he and I are sadder still,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!)"See, see, the wax has dropped from its place,Sister Helen,And the flames are winning up apace!""Yet here they burn but for a space,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!)"Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd,Sister Helen?Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?""A soul that's lost as mine is lost,Little brother!"(O Mother, Mary Mother,Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!)
Notice how the action naturally dies off into despair. From the beginning until very nearly the close, we had an uninterrupted crescendo, as we should say in music—that is, a gradual intensification of the passion expressed. With the stroke of the death-bell the passion subsides. The revenge is satisfied, the irreparable wrong is done to avenge a wrong, and with the entrance of the ghost the whole consequence of the act begins to appear within the soul of the actor. I know of nothing more terrible in literature than this poem, as expressing certain phases of human feeling, and nothing more intensely true. The probability or improbability of the incidents is of no more consequence than is the unreality of the witch-belief. It is enough that such beliefs once existed to make us know that the rest is not only possible but certain. For a time we are really subjected to the spell of a mediæval nightmare.
As we have seen, the above poem is mainly a subjective study. As an objective study, "The White Ship" shows us an equal degree of power, appealing tothe visual faculty. We cannot read it all, nor is this necessary. A few examples will be sufficient. This ballad is in distichs, and has a striking refrain. The story is founded upon historical fact. The son and heir of the English king Henry I, together with his sister and many knights and ladies, was drowned on a voyage from France to England, and it is said that the king was never again seen to smile after he had heard the news. Rossetti imagines the story told by a survivor—a butcher employed on the ship, the lowest menial on board. Such a man would naturally feel very differently toward the prince from others of the train, and would criticise him honestly from the standpoint of simple morality.
Eighteen years till then he had seen,And the devil's dues in him were eighteen.
The peasant thus estimates the ruler who breaks the common laws of God and man. Nevertheless he is just in his own way, and can appreciate unselfishness even in a man whom he hates.
He was a Prince of lust and pride;He showed no grace till the hour he died.. . . . . . .God only knows where his soul did wake,But I saw him die for his sister's sake.
It is a simple mind of this sort that can best tell a tragical story; and the butcher's story is about the most perfect thing imaginable of its kind. Here also we have one admirable bit of subjective work, the narrationof the butcher's experience in the moment of drowning. I suppose you all know that when one is just about to die, or in danger of sudden death, the memory becomes extraordinarily vivid, and things long forgotten flash into the mind as if painted by lightning, together with voices of the past.
I Berold was down in the sea;Passing strange though the thing may be,Of dreams then known I remember me.
Not dreams in the sense of visions of sleep, but images of memory.
Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strandWhen morning lights the sails to land:And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloamWhen mothers call the children home:And high do the bells of Rouen beatWhen the Body of Christ goes down the street.These things and the like were heard and shownIn a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone;And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem,And not these things, to be all a dream.
In the moment after the sinking of the ship, under the water, the man remembers what he most loved at home—mornings in a fishing village, seeing the ships return; evenings in a like village, and the sound of his own mother's voice calling him home, as when he was a little child at play; then the old Norman city that he knewwell, and the church processions of Corpus Christi (Body of Christ), the great event of the year for the poorer classes. Why he remembered such things at such a time he cannot say; it seemed to him a very ghostly experience, but not more ghostly than the sight of the sea and the moon when he rose again.
The ship was gone and the crowd was gone,And the deep shuddered and the moon shone;And in a strait grasp my arms did spanThe mainyard rent from the mast where it ran;And on it with me was another man.Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea-sky,We told our names, that man and I."O I am Godefroy de l'Aigle hight,And son I am to a belted knight.""And I am Berold the butcher's son,Who slays the beasts in Rouen town."
The touch here, fine as it is, is perfectly natural. The common butcher finds himself not only for the moment in company with a nobleman, but able to talk to him as a friend. There is no rank or wealth between sky and sea—or, as a Japanese proverb says, "There is no king on the road of death." The refrain of the ballad utters the same truth:
Lands are swayed by a King on a throne,The sea hath no King but God alone.
Both in its realism and in its emotion this ballad isa great masterpiece. It is much superior to "The King's Tragedy," also founded upon history. "The King's Tragedy" seems to us a little strained; perhaps the poet attempted too much. I shall not quote from it, but will only recommend a reading of it to students of English literature because of its relation to a very beautiful story—the story of the courtship of James I of Scotland, and of how he came to write his poem called "The King's Quhair."
Another ballad demands some attention and explanation, though it is not suitable for reading in the classroom. It is an expression of passion—but not passion merely human; rather superhuman and evil. For she who speaks in this poem is not a woman like "Sister Helen"; she is a demon.
Not a drop of her blood was human,But she was made like a soft sweet woman.
Perhaps the poet desired to show us here the extremest imaginative force of hate and cruelty—not in a mortal being, because that would repel us, but in an immortal being, in whom such emotion can only inspire fear. Emotionally, the poet's conception is of the Middle Ages, but the tradition is incomparably older; we can trace it back to ancient Assyrian beliefs. Coming to us through Hebrew literature, this strange story has inspired numberless European poets and painters, besides the author of "Eden Bower." You should know the story, because you will find a great many references to it in the different literatures of Europe.
Briefly, Lilith is the name of an evil spirit believed by the ancient Jews and by other Oriental nations tocause nightmare. But she did other things much more evil, and there were curious legends about her. The Jews said that before the first woman, Eve, was created, Adam had a demon wife by whom he became the father of many evil spirits. When Eve was created and given to him in marriage, Lilith was necessarily jealous, and resolved to avenge herself upon the whole human race. It is even to-day the custom among Jews to make a charm against Lilith on their marriage night; for Lilith is especially the enemy of brides.
But the particular story about Lilith that mostly figures in poetry and painting is this: If any young man sees Lilith, he must at once fall in love with her, because she is much more beautiful than any human being; and if he falls in love with her, he dies. After his death, if his body is opened by the doctors, it will be found that a long golden hair, one strand of woman's hair, is fastened round his heart. The particular evil in which Lilith delights is the destruction of youth.
In Rossetti's poem Lilith is represented only as declaring to her demon lover, the Serpent, how she will avenge herself upon Adam and upon Eve. The ideas are in one way extremely interesting; they represent the most tragical and terrible form of jealousy—that jealousy written of in the Bible as being like the very fires of Hell. We might say that in Victorian verse this is the unique poem of jealousy, in a female personification. For the male personification we must go to Robert Browning.
But there is a masterly phase of jealousy described in one of Rossetti's modern poems, "A Last Confession." Here, however, the jealousy is of the kind with whichwe can humanly sympathise; there is nothing monstrous or distorted about it. The man has reason to suspect unchastity, and he kills the woman on the instant. I should, therefore, consider this poem rather as a simple and natural tragedy than as a study of jealousy. It is to be remarked here that Rossetti did not confine himself to mediæval or supernatural subjects. Three of his very best poems are purely modern, belonging to the nineteenth century. This "Last Confession," appropriately placed in Italy, is not the most remarkable of the three, but it is very fine. I do not know anything in even French literature to be compared with the pathos of the murder scene, unless it be the terrible closing chapter of Prosper Mérimée's "Carmen." The story of "Carmen" is also a confession; but there is a great difference in the history of the tragedies. Carmen's lover does not kill in a moment of passion. He kills only after having done everything that a man could do in order to avoid killing. He argues, prays, goes on his knees in supplication—all in vain. And then we know that he must kill, that any man in the same terrible situation must kill. He stabs her; then the two continue to look at each other—she keeping her large black eyes fixed on the face of her murderer, till suddenly they close, and she falls. No simpler fact could occur in the history of an assassination; yet how marvellous the power of that simple fact as the artist tells it. We always see those eyes. In the case of Rossetti's murderer, the incidents of the tragedy differ somewhat, because he is blind with passion at the moment that he strikes, and does not see. When his vision clears again, he sees the girl fall, and
—her stiff bodice scooped the sandInto her bosom.
As long as he lived, he always saw that—the low stiff front of the girl's dress with the sand and blood. In its way this description is quite as terrible as the last chapter of "Carmen"; and it would be difficult to say which victim of passion most excites our sympathies. The other two poems of modern life to which I have referred are "The Card-Dealer" and "Jenny." "The Card-Dealer" represents a singular faculty on the poet's part of seeing ordinary facts in their largest relations. In many European gambling houses of celebrity, the cards used are dealt—that is, given to the players—by a beautiful woman, usually a woman not of the virtuous kind. The poet, entering such a place, watches the game for a time in silence, and utters his artistic admiration of the beauty of the card-dealer, merely as he would admire a costly picture or a statue of gold. Then suddenly comes to him the thought that this woman, and the silent players, and the game, are but symbols of eternal fact. The game is no longer to his eyes a mere game of cards; it is the terrible game of Life, the struggle for wealth and vain pleasures. The woman is no longer a woman, but Fate; she plays the game of Death against Life, and those who play with her must lose. However, the allusions in this poem would require for easy understanding considerable familiarity with the terms of card-play and the names of the cards. If you know these, I think you will find this poem a very solemn and beautiful composition.
Much more modern is "Jenny," a poem whichgreatly startled the public when it was first published. People were inclined for the moment to be shocked; then they studied and admired; finally they praised unlimitedly, and the poem deserved all praise. But the subject was a very daring one to put before a public so prudish as the English. For Jenny is a prostitute. Nevertheless the prudish public gladly accepted this wonderful psychological study, which no other poet of the nineteenth century, except perhaps Browning, could have attempted.
The plan of the poem is as follows: A young man, perhaps the poet himself, finds at some public place of pleasure a woman of the town, who pleases him, and he accompanies her to her residence. Although the young man is perhaps imprudent in seeking the company of such a person, he is only doing what tens of thousands of young men are apt to do without thinking. He represents, we might say, youth in general. But there is a difference between him and the average youth in one respect—he thinks. On reaching the girl's room, he is already in a thoughtful mood; and when she falls asleep upon his knees, tired with the dancing and banqueting of the evening, he does not think of awakening her. He begins to meditate. He looks about the room and notices the various objects in it, simple enough in themselves, but strangely significant by their relation to such a time and place—a vase of flowers, a little clock ticking, a bird in a cage. The flowers make him think of the symbolism of flowers—lilies they are, but faded. Lilies, the symbol of purity, in Jenny's room! But once she herself was a lily—now also morally faded. Then the clock, ticking out its minutes, hours—whatstrange hours it has ticked out! He looks at the sleeping girl again, but with infinite pity. She dreams; what is she dreaming of? To wake her would be cruel, for in the interval of sleep she forgets all the sorrows of the world. He thinks:
For sometimes, were the truth confess'd,You're thankful for a little rest,—Glad from the crush to rest within,From the heart-sickness and the dinWhere envy's voice at virtue's pitchMocks you because your gown is rich;And from the pale girl's dumb rebuke,Whose ill-clad grace and toil-worn lookProclaims the strength that keeps her weak.. . . . . . .Is rest not sometimes sweet to you?—But most from the hatefulness of man,Who spares not to end what he began,Whose acts are ill and his speech ill,Who, having used you at his will,Thrusts you aside, as when I dineI serve the dishes and the wine.
Then he begins to think of the terrible life of the prostitute, what it means, the hideous and cruel part of it, and the end of it. Here let me say that the condition of such a woman in England is infinitely worse than it is in many other countries; in no place is she treated with such merciless cruelty by society. He asks himself why this should be so—how can men find pleasure in cruelty to so beautiful and simple-hearted a creature? Then, suddenly looking at her asleep, he is struck by a terrible resemblance which she bears to the sweetestwoman that he knows, the girl perhaps that he would marry. Seen asleep, the two girls look exactly the same. Each is young, graceful, and beautiful; yet one is a girl adored by society for all that makes a woman lovable, and the other is—what? These lines best explain the thought:
Just as another woman sleeps!Enough to throw one's thoughts in heapsOf doubt and horror,—what to sayOr think,—this awful secret sway,The potter's power over the clay!Of the same lump (it has been said)For honour and dishonour made,Two sister vessels. Here is one.My cousin Nell is fond of fun,And fond of dress, and change, and praise,So mere a woman in her ways:And if her sweet eyes rich in youthAre like her lips that tell the truth,My cousin Nell is fond of love.And she's the girl I'm proudest of.Who does not prize her, guard her well?The love of change, in cousin Nell,Shall find the best and hold it dear:The unconquered mirth turn quieterNot through her own, through others' woe:The conscious pride of beauty glowBeside another's pride in her.. . . . . .Of the same lump (as it is said),For honour and dishonour made,Two sister vessels. Here is one.It makes a goblin of the sun!
For, judging by the two faces, the two characters were originally the same. Yet how terrible the difference now. This woman likes what all women like; his cousin, the girl he most loves in the world, has the very same love of nice dresses, pleasures, praise. There is nothing wrong in liking these things. But in the case of the prostitute all pleasure must turn for her to ashes and bitterness. The pure girl will have in this world all the pretty dresses and pleasures and love that she can wish for; and will never have reason to feel unhappy except when she hears of the unhappiness of somebody else. And it seems a monstrous thing under heaven that such a different destiny should be portioned out to beings at first so much alike as those two women. Even to think of his cousin looking like her, gives him a shudder of pain—not because he cruelly despises the sleeping girl, but because he thinks of what might have happened to his own dearest, under other chances of life.
Yet again, who knows what may be in the future, any more than what has been in the past? All this world is change. The fortunate of to-day may be unfortunate in their descendants; the fortunate of long ago were perhaps the ancestors of the miserable of to-day. And everything may in the eternal order of change have to rise and sink alternately. Cousin Nell is to-day a fortunate woman; he, the dreamer at the bed-side of the nameless girl, is a fortunate man. But what might happen to their children? He thinks again of the strange resemblance of the two women, and murmurs: